stands its season
ripe
as the depictions painted
outlive nature's generosity
tend as lovers do
to forget
their fragility
handling flesh like swords
conquering the earth with passion's
brevity
just as the reaper swipes
his scythe ruthlessly
and the chaff
falls like fallen soldiers do
into dirt
as we all do

a bird, clever, watched my footsteps
took note of my being, my general movements,
was I injured, slow, old, at the near end of my days.
this bird has been around for all my wandering
and I would not be whole without its presence.
Hoodie Crows, that clever bird,
may yet peck and pick over my carcass.

death creeps inside your mind
along with the constant shedding of dead skin

wearing black out of respect
for your own demise

what is there to celebrate?
when everyday is your funeral

when eulogy trips off your tongue
with every last breath you breathe.

eternity opens between each heartbeat
for a fleeting moment you were dead
and yet you still live. and it didn't hurt
a bit. That heartbeat is poetry and the
silence hangs in the air, you live despite
yourself, on the journey, on the road
even when only your heart thumps
the sound of the drum, ancient dance,
thunder in your chest, a lightening strike,
love, ah love, now that's worth dying for.

filling up the void with cold skin
where a mind full of words sing
out of tune and out of luck
the summer this year is shorter
and memories just keep haunting
the ghost of nothing in particular
pimples rise like high mountains
in a cold shower of stagnant water

some lifeforms would **** and eat you
lions, tigers, alligators....
but mostly life slowly kills you
and the longer you live the closer you come to death

don't sweat it
you'll make it all the way
to your death

truth can be twisted
and often is
around serpents tongues